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I went to celebrate your birthday
armed with beer and a heavy heart,
drove to the sunny cemetery,
and found men mowing the lawn.

I waited.

And kept waiting for thirty minutes alone in my car, until finally
I had to open up the beer.
Had no opener, so I fought with my keys
which took about ten minutes
so I guess that passed the time.

They werestill mowing and I know
they saw me sitting in my car
waiting and yet they kept driving
on those tiny golf cart mowers
up and down, up and down
to feed my anxiety.

I finished my beer and felt
at a loss of what came next.
I opened another, because, after all,
that’s what one does when at a loss.

Still they mowed until finally I got out,
walked to the grave, small steel plaque
flat in the ground. The bastards probably
mowed over the damn thing.
They gave me judgmental looks,
so I quickly prayed and left.

All the while I was wondering
how the dead feel, up in heaven
or down in hell, about being
mowed over with a heavy machine
on a weekly basis.

It appears that she is floating,
not a limb pressing down on the cool
grass beneath four feather-paws
as she tenses her entire body, pulling
with stored energy and killing motive
as the butterfly is in her sights.

Her golden tuffs of fur
are the only part visibly moving,
as she imperceptibly shifts weight
and twitches with anticipation–
her victim flutters unknowingly, absent
minded and innocent to the threat.

In a second she pounces entrapping
the butterfly in an instant
but she does not kill it–not then,
because it is far more amusing as a toy.
To watch it flutter inches and fall,
all within her control, never going too far
and all the while the butterfly
is suffering as silently as its life
passed, too quiet for the human ear,
beating its wings, trying to
catch the last of the summer wind.

A poem for Sundays, because it is one of my favorite days. And, no, I don’t feel like creating a better title.

Sundays

On slow, soundless Sundays hours fade,
and tea grows cold and still
while someone wishes a smile to appear
through book pages, from under thick blankets.
Sundays look over the world
with Eeyore eyes and turned down lips,
loneliness sits in the lines of her face.

Sometimes words of the head
betray those of the heart…
conjuring scenarios of what may be,
pastimes, passing the time sipping stale tea,
but wishing for a glass of red wine,
to muffle the musings of the mind.

A good day for overthinking, Sundays,
wake memories of what was,
and visions of what will come.

Tea always steeps slow in the still of Sundays,
while distant church bells break the silence,
bursting from the bleak, light hours,
shaking yesterday’s tears off blades and branches,
and ringing the last hours, begging for a week anew.

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